


The Best Antidote to Sorrow

by goldenhart



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Epistolary, Gen, Great Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: Several times during the last three years, I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret.- Sherlock Holmes, 'The Adventure of the Empty House'Holmes' letters to Watson during his hiatus after Moriarty's death.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17
Collections: Unsent Letters 2020





	The Best Antidote to Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleetSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetSparrow/gifts).



> Warning for minor character death.

_ Florence, Italy: _

May 13th, 1891

My dear Watson:- 

So it is done. The tidy little Reuter’s despatch in the English papers on May 7th has announced to the world that Mr Sherlock Holmes is dead, and so he is. A horrible, nasty piece of business, Watson, and I should be very glad to be rid of it, and yet I breathe the air no freer on this side of the Alps, for there are still out there those who would do harm to me or others without so much as a second thought. Until the London trial  — where I am certain the last of Moriarty’s gang will see justice  — I must conceal myself. He is  — was  — the Napoleon of crime, Watson, and though London was the heart of his empire there are few cities on the Continent that have not felt his sinister touch. You must understand, now, why I turned from your company that day, why I sent you to return to Meiringen, even though I knew the letter to be a hoax. My own letter to you was absolutely genuine. I truly did believe that my career had come to its end, there at the falls, and I was satisfied in that, though not at the cost it would come to you. For I am sorry, my friend. Of all the various fallacies in your stories, the one that I have no heart is the greatest falsehood of all, for I do, and to watch you search and call my name in vain was more costly to me than I could have possibly anticipated. But I could not reveal myself, not then, not now  — for you see that I shall not send this letter to you, but rather keep it on my person, in the hope that one day we will see each other again and I will be able to explain to you properly why it was that I had to leave you there that day.

I have asked Mycroft to watch over you, your wife, and Mrs Hudson. He is the only one who knows I yet live and that is how it must remain. Those who know best will tell you there are two places a secret may be stored: in the vaults of the Tower and in the mind of Mycroft Holmes, with the latter far more preferable, being far more secure and even more sedentary. 

I will leave off here. The sun is shining, and I have been informed that a copy of the Journal de Geneve dating to May 6th has been procured for me and is waiting with the concierge. 

I remain,

Very Sincerely Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

—

_ Constantinople, Ottoman Empire: _

June 15th, 1891

My dear Watson:- 

I have read in the English newspapers with great agitation that the trial of Moriarty’s gang has not gone as planned. I had hoped that the evidence I provided would be enough to see them all hanged, or at the very least locked away for a long time, but it would seem that Moriarty’s corrupting influence has crept into even our highest courts of law. I can see no other cause behind Moriarty’s two most dangerous accomplices going free, for there was evidence enough to convict them several times over, and yet their trials left them at liberty. I have therefore made up my mind to travel eastward and to conceal myself as best I can until such a time as I can return to London. 

Mycroft tells me you have set aside your pen and that you have informed your publishers that there are to be no more stories forthcoming. It would be a mistake if you were to hold to your word; your physicking has always been adequate, but it is in your writing that your brilliance shines through. Much as I deplore the subject of your tales, and your fanciful presentation of scientific deduction, I find that you have a tolerable writing style that lends itself well to being enjoyed, even celebrated, by many, and it would be a pity if the public were deprived of their beloved author. 

Constantinople is intolerably hot, but the tobacco is good, and the coffee even more so. I have bought myself a new pair of Turkish slippers  — it does me good to be reminded of my customary tobacco-pouch at home.

Believe me to be,

Very Sincerely Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

—

_ Bombay, India: _

December 8th, 1891

My dear Watson:- 

It has been brought to my attention that the whole of London is in an uproar over the recent letters published by Colonel John Moriarty defending the memory of his brother and by the same pen-stroke, defaming me as a charlatan and a murderer. That sort of slander will not go unanswered by John Watson, I should think  — I fully expect a rebuttal by you within the month. 

I suppose I needn’t bother you with complaints about the Indian weather  — even in December it is intolerable, but you know that, of course. I find myself thinking of you as I walk in the mornings, before the heat of day, wondering what a young Watson must have seen, what he must have thought. Did you find it as horrid a place as so many Englishmen claim it to be? I overheard one gentleman complaining about the filth and poverty of this city as I sat in the lounge this morning, and was forced to hide my laughter behind my newspaper when he announced how glad he would be to return to London  — he spoke as though London were somehow free of those sins as well! 

I never thought I would miss the grey overcast London skies, and yet I do. 

I remain,

Your Friend,

Sherlock Holmes

—

_ Lhassa, Tibet: _

April 27th, 1892

My dear Watson:-

Your latest publication arrived just before I left India. I read it more eagerly than I have ever read one of your stories. 

I am sorry, Watson. If there had been another way I would have found it, but there was not. Every possible action I might have taken would still have led me to those falls, to Moriarty and my death. Blind luck saved me that day  — no great feat of intelligence or cunning  — blind, stupid luck. 

I will return to London, one day. Perhaps I might be able to even tempt you away from that wife of yours, and we can once more adventure together as we did before. I can only hope that you will forgive me for what I have done, and understand why it was that I could not send a single one of these letters I have written to you. I will give them to you, one day  — they are yours, I am merely holding them safe. 

Believe me,

Very Sincerely Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

—

_ Teheran, Persia: _

November 14th, 1892

My dear Watson:-

Mycroft informs me that you have commenced writing a novel  — he informs me that it concerns our adventures in Devon some years ago. I hope that you will restrain whatever Gothic urges you may have and set down the facts precisely as they happened, with no literary flourishes or unnecessary hyperbole. Mr Sherlock Holmes is dead, my friend, and it is on your shoulders that the integrity of his legacy rests  — do not fritter it away by portraying him to be anything more than he was. 

I hope you have been paying attention to some of the papers. Earlier this year a Norwegian fellow named Sigerson set forth on an expedition following reports of a bipedal, ape-like creatures that attacked a party of French mountaineers in northern Nepal. It was quite the curious case, at first, but like so many things it revealed its mundane origins in time, for you see, Sigerson was me  — I was reluctant, initially, to allow word of my exploits to be published, but then I considered you in London, reading the papers, and some strange part of me hoped that you might recognise your friend in the figure of the explorer. You are a clever man, John Watson, far more clever than the bumbling caricature in your stories would make you seem. 

One day I will tell you of my adventures. One day we will sit across the fire at Baker Street as we have done on so many nights before, and I will tell to you all that I have done and seen in the days since we parted. But, until then, I remain,

Your Firm Friend,

Sherlock Holmes

—

_ Jeddah, Arabia: _

February 8th, 1893

My dear Watson:-

I read in the papers that your latest novel, ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’, has been released to no small amount of success. A copy awaits me at my hotel in Cairo, and I anticipate reading it with much the same fervour as your usual fanatics hold towards your scribblings. I will be staying in Cairo for a spell, before journeying down the Nile  — Mycroft is desirous that I do him a small favour and ‘look in on’ the Khalifa at Khartoum, whatever that means, before returning to Cairo. 

Mycroft also informs me that Mrs Watson is poorly. I am sorry to hear that, my friend  — I can only hope her condition is not too serious and improves quickly. Mary is a dear woman, and it is for your sake as much as hers that I wish her well. 

Your Friend,

Sherlock Holmes

—

_ Cairo, Egypt: _

September 18th, 1893

My dear Watson:- 

Words are not enough to express my sorrow at hearing of Mary’s passing. I hope you can console yourself in the knowledge that your skill as a physician no doubt eased her final months and that your devotion as her loving husband surely gave her comfort. These are not cheap sentiments  — I would not write them if they were not true. My sole regret is that I am not there to stand at your side through this, to be the friend that you have been to me all these long years. 

Khartoum was a debacle, one best left to the Foreign Office. I have submitted my report to Mycroft about my investigations and have gently informed him to never ask me for another favour so long as we both shall live. As for me, I am headed to France  — a laboratory in Montpellier is looking for a chemist of particular talents to do some research into coal-tar derivatives, and I feel that I may be of some use in that regard. 

The news of Mary’s death has made one thing very clear to me: I must cease my nomadic wanderings and return to England. This game has gone on long enough, I can no longer watch from afar like some ghastly spectre while the lives of my friends pass by me. So to France, first, and then, when the time is right, to London. 

I should be very glad to get back. 

Believe me to be, my dear fellow,

Very Sincerely Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

—

_ Montpellier, France _

April 1st, 1894

My dear Watson:-

Coal-tar derivatives have lost their lustre. Murder has not. I had planned to return to London next month  — I will not delay any longer. I read of the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair only yesterday and knew at once that my services were once more required, for reasons that can only be explained in person. I have arranged passage back to England  — perhaps I shall surprise Mycroft at his club, which would certainly be enjoyable. 

Exploration is mediocre at best, miserable at worst, laboratory work dull and repetitive. There is an undeniable thrill to the thought of returning and resuming my career. And perhaps, if I am so fortunate, it will be with my old friend at my side.

I do not expect your forgiveness. I know what I have done would be unconscionable in the eyes of many, but believe me when I say that it was not without cause; it was not only my life at stake that day in Meiringen. I can only hope that my actions both past and present serve to redeem whatever transgressions I have committed. 

I will see you again, my friend, when fate and circumstance once more conspire to draw our paths together, as I have no doubt they will. 

Until then, I remain,

Your Friend,

Sherlock Holmes


End file.
